


Our Debris Flows to the Ocean

by ilostmyshoe



Series: Black Sun [2]
Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Depression, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-05-13 04:06:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5694088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilostmyshoe/pseuds/ilostmyshoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The self-hatred comes in unpredictable waves. It always has, for as long as Wes can remember—set off by something small, something that happened years ago, or by nothing at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Debris Flows to the Ocean

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to stars for once again betaing my angst from this fandom she's never watched.  
> I'm putting this in a series with my Rebecca fic, but either can be read as standalone.

The self-hatred comes in unpredictable waves. It always has, for as long as Wes can remember—set off by something small, something that happened years ago, or by nothing at all. The randomness highlights its true cause as a biochemical legacy, passed down from mother to son. It’s always been in him, bone-deep and inevitable, ebbing and returning like the tides.

The latest waves are as an almost-welcome distraction: even violent self-loathing is better than the hollow numbness Rebecca left in her wake. He’d been wondering how much longer he could continue aping emotions—the reactions the others clearly expect of him—when all he wants is to quietly cease to exist. Now, he embraces the loathing, lets the violence shine though his eyes and leaves the others to their own interpretations.

A new wave of it hits him hard in the middle of torts. He clenches his hands until his short nails dig into his palms and wonders how the crowd around him can be so oblivious to the vile, useless waste of space in their midst. Can’t they sense it? Does some forced politeness keep them from reacting? Or is it like an ambient foul odor that they’re trying to ignore it, hoping someone else will take care of it?

On the bike ride home, his mind keeps sliding back to how easily he could drift into traffic. Just a slight lean, a small shift in his weight, and Wes would collide with a car, putting himself out of his misery…and possibly injuring the person inside, scarring them for life. He curses his disgusting selfishness and conscientiously comes to a full and complete stop at every stop sign and yellow light for the rest of the route.

Climbing the stairs and passing Rebecca’s door, he remembers her birthday—was it really only a few weeks ago? He had been so fucking mad at her. He’d somehow convinced himself in the weeks leading up to it that she would finally reach out to him on that day—send him a cryptic email, a text from an unknown number, a message scrawled on a napkin calling him a sentimental idiot, something. Instead, of course, there had been nothing.

Maybe her silence should have been final proof of her death. Or maybe it meant nothing, and Wes was pathetic, delusional to have imagined she would reach out to him for any reason—especially after he left her tied in a basement, easy prey for her murderer. His thoughts spin in circles, and it eats at him that he can feel so torn between such polar extremes.

He can almost hear Rebecca’s snide response, as if she can see him right now: “Why, Wes, it’s almost like you never knew me at all.”

She would widen her eyes in mock disappointment, an almost-successful attempt to cover up her genuine hurt. Then her mouth would twist into that small smile that cut like a knife, because every true emotion she’d ever known came signed in blood. And whether the confrontation ended in sex or tears or a door slammed in his face, he’d never know for certain what had offended her.

He lies in bed and stares again at the cracked plaster of the ceiling. When this wave recedes he’ll force himself back into motion. He’ll find a new crusade or flag to follow, and he’ll play along with the idea that if he tries enough, accomplishes enough, helps enough people, he can begin to make up for being a worthless piece of shit. And he’ll brace himself, as always, for the next wave’s inevitable return.


End file.
